


Douse the Flame

by mollykaths



Series: hardest of hearts [1]
Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Flirting, Grimmel pretends to be a "Good guy" and trick Hiccup into thinking he's on his side, Hair Braiding, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Violence, Mind Games, POV Second Person, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but here we are, grimcup, literally no one asked for this ship, or wanted it, or whatever fucking creepy version of "Flirting" this constitutes as lmao, unbeta'd we die like men, wow what a garbage ship, written from the perspective of a slimeball garbage man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollykaths/pseuds/mollykaths
Summary: A large and polished shield made of fine metal serves as a mirror, its reflection revealing a proper, handsome young man. Not a meek boy with unkempt hair. The shape of Hiccup’s face looks so different with his hair pulled back, his cheekbones and square jaw more pronounced.





	Douse the Flame

Tinkering away in the forge, buried deep in his work, Hiccup wrinkles his nose. It’s cute, you think. Someone else— someone in love— would take to that observation and swoon. You find it docile. Hiccup’s little quirks remind you of a wolf pup sneezing.  You lean against the table, biting into a fresh piece of fruit, surveying the young man and appreciating his nimble fingers. Where you’re from, the permafrost doesn’t allow for such delicacies like this fruit to thrive. The treat makes you feel greedy and indulgent, like it's not truly yours to just take.

On days like these, Hiccup is comfortable enough to discard his flying attire, dressed down to his tunic and trousers. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. You like watching his lithe muscles move behind pale skin.  Hiccup’s brow grows taut with concentration as he sketches in his journal, huffing with discontent whenever forgoes a design by tearing out the page, crumpling it up and tossing it away. The fog from outside is rolling in now, billowing up, and if it were enough to swallow Hiccup whole, the boy is so engrossed he wouldn’t even notice. It's getting late. You wonder if the boy ever finds sleep with so many ideas rattling around in his brain. 

Hiccup doesn’t mind that you watch him while he works. The Night Fury always lingers nearby, however, shooting quizzical glances. It’s warmed up to you but its instincts still tell it to be watchful. Fair enough. Hiccup doesn’t understand the insidious motives behind your loitering. He thinks you’re just trying to acclimate to his customs. When the beast finally takes a nap, suddenly its much less bothersome and you’re relieved. You only tolerate this proximity for now because that dragon’s hide would look lovely draped someplace special in your home. 

Soon, if you’re lucky.

For the umpteenth time, a piece of hair falls into Hiccup’s eyes, tickling his brow and the boy shakes his head, regaining focus. You chuckle very softly at this display. Hiccup hears you, interest piqued, and he turns his head.

“What’s so funny?”

Setting aside your fruit, you make your way towards Hiccup’s desk, where he’s hunched over a mess of notes, scribbles and wrinkled parchment.

“Your hair.”

“What about my hair?” Hiccup asks.

“It appears to be quite the nuisance, always getting in your eyes. Have you thought of tying it back?”

Hiccup shrugs and says, “I guess I never really thought about it.”

Searching the desk for something that will suffice, you find a thin, unused piece of cord, the sort of toolmeant to bind books together.

“Allow me.”

Unprepared for the sudden coldness of your hands, Hiccup shivers. You comb your fingers through soft locks, gathering the tufts neatly together. Relishable, the way you crowd Hiccup so intimately, without really meaning to at all, as you stand behind him— no _loom_ over him. How easy it’d be to just yank a fist full of his hair, throw his head back and press your blade against that sweet little neck. Impulse control has never been a concern of yours: you’re a skillful sportsman,methodical, not some brute. Still, the whispers of belligerent fantasies are fun to mull over.

The boy remains speechless, only momentarily, processing this almost uncomfortable (but not unwanted) attention in the only way he knows how: by cracking a joke.

“This, uh, some kind of bonding exercise where you’re from? Giving the chief a makeover?”

“Hardly,” You supply. “Where I’m from, we traverse an unforgiving climate. Not much time for grooming and looking pretty, I’m afraid.”

“No wonder you’re always so chipper!”

Unamused, you let a ring on your finger catch in Hiccup’s hair. The boy hisses.

“ _Ow._ ”

“Sorry.”

You're not. Hiccup doesn’t see you grin.

“So what _do_ you guys do for fun?” Hiccup inquires while you twist his hair into a neat braid, or at least the bits that will cooperate and fit accordingly. His hair isn’t long enough to warrant a lengthy plait. Ever so slightly, you lean in close enough to smell his hair. So unbelievably soft and its scent is sweet, earthy, reminiscent of some kind of herbal salve. 

“We drink. Gamble. Share stories.”

“Huh. Not so different from what we do here, then,” Hiccup muses.

“Hm, I suppose. There, all done. Come and look.”

Hiccup bounces out of his seat and you take him by the shoulders, steering him across the forge, careful not to wake the slumbering beast. A large and polished shield made of fine metal serves as a mirror, its reflection revealing a proper _,_ handsome young man. Not a meek boy with unkempt hair. The shape of Hiccup’s face looks so different with his hair pulled back, his cheekbones and square jaw more pronounced.

“Whoa,” Hiccup says, breath hitched in awe. “So that’s what my forehead looks like.”

You have no idea if that was meant to be a joke so you ignore the remark altogether.

“Stand up straight,” You scold, flattening your palm into his back, pushing him upright. “This is what it means to be a chief, to look the part. A chief does not hide behind messy hair.”

“If you say so,” Hiccup says, eyes narrowed. Around the edges, perhaps, or flickering deep behind green eyes, you can find traces of doubt. You never have to look too hard. Hiccup is still careful to armor himself around you, never revealing too much too soon but the boy wears his heart on his sleeve so it all shines through.

“You seem unconvinced.”

“No, I—“ Hiccup begins and then snaps his mouth shut.

“Yes?”

“It’s just…I realize now. I look so much like him. I have my mom’s eyes, but…”

His voice trails off, shoulders slumped. 

Ah, right. The boy’s deceased father.  You grab him by the shoulders again, turning him to face you. Hiccup worries his bottom lip with his teeth.

“You’ll honor him.”

“I’d like to think I _have_ been,” Hiccup mumbles, eyes darting elsewhere, not ready to meet your direct, firebrand intense gaze.

“You’ll start by working on your posture. A chief does not _slouch.”_

Now Hiccup fires back, perturbed and a tad indignant, “What, are you my life coach or something?”

You laugh, “No, just a wise old old man, passing on his knowledge. Stop pouting, that’s not chiefly, either.”

Hiccup folds his arms across his chest and scoffs, “Oh, okay, Mr. Expert on Nobility, what other sage advice do you have for me?”

“You’ll have to grow a beard.”

“Hey, I’m working on that!”

You shake your head and reply, “You have light scruff, cute as it may be, but it’s not the beard of a Viking.”

“ _Cute_? Excuse you.”

Hiccup is not a large man but he can square his shoulders and stand on the balls of his feet to give off the illusion that he could be. You still have to bend down to meet his height.

“I’m toying with you, boy.” You snicker, clapping him hard on the back, hard enough to make him wince. He can take it. You’ve seen him withstand fiercer blows from his friends. “Try not to take it so seriously. We joke to keep one another humble.”

“I’ll have you know, sir.” Hiccup warns, fists balled up. “I’m considered very tall for my demographic.”

“Hm. Too skinny, though.”

To make your point, you jab Hiccup in the belly with your forefinger. 

“I could have you tried for your crimes. _Slander_.”

“Right.”

Hiccup utters an indignant noise while closing the gap of space between you both, your faces inches apart. If this an intimidation tactic, it's not a very good one. Not that you expect very much at all.

“Don’t take offense, boy. I prefer you this way. It suits you.”

You hold Hiccup’s chin in place with your thumb and forefinger. Hiccup falls silent but not absent. This is the kind of quiet that drives you to do wild, impulsive things, just to break the tension but you think this’ll be worth the wait. Hiccup wants to make the first move, to leap from high places, to bear his throat and lay witness to what happens next. After all, Hiccup has a better excuse to act impulsively than you do, being so young and hot-headed.

For a moment, you think Hiccup is about to kiss you, his lips parted and eyelids heavy. Your fingers still hold him in place. Delicately, you brush your thumb across his cheek, coaxing him. Want knifes through your core. There’s a heavy silence, filled only by the sound of exhales. Noses bump together, briefly, and you could swear you’re ready to have a taste but then all too soon, Hiccup backs down, embarrassed. Blushing, he puffs out air from the side of his mouth, arms flapping ungainly at his sides.

Disappointing but not surprising. You’ve laid out your trap and now you must wait patiently, as all hunters do. It hooks in your lungs, the desire to grab Hiccup and have him gasping for it, mouth quickly turning bitten-red and swollen. What separates you from most people is that you'd never let yourself be driven from the wrong side of needy into unfathomable desperation, so you let the boy go. For now.

“I should, um, get back to work,” Hiccup mumbles. “Thanks for the, y’know—“

Awkwardly, Hiccup gestures to your handiwork. If you've learned anything from this interaction, its that Hiccup is very susceptible to praise which isn't entirely useless.

“Very well, Chief.”

When you return to your respective stations, Hiccup at his desk and yourself, studying him with an almost spellbound fixation, you bite into fruit you had abandoned earlier.

It doesn’t taste nearly as sweet as it did before. 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave Hiccup alone you gross old man.


End file.
